


Sighting

by halotolerant



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Pre-Slash, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-29
Updated: 2010-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks to <a href="http://elfwhistletree.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://elfwhistletree.livejournal.com/"><b>elfwhistletree</b></a>for beta ♥</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sighting

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://elfwhistletree.livejournal.com/profile)[**elfwhistletree**](http://elfwhistletree.livejournal.com/)for beta ♥

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[challenges](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/challenges), [character: bodie](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/character:%20bodie), [fiction](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/fiction), [genre: angst](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/genre:%20angst), [genre: character background](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/genre:%20character%20background), [genre: character study](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/genre:%20character%20study), [genre: slash](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/genre:%20slash), [pairing: bodie/doyle](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/pairing:%20bodie/doyle), [rating: everyone](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/tag/rating:%20everyone)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Fic: Sighting, by halotolerant (B/D, everyone)**_

**Title: **Sighting   
**Author**:[](http://halotolerant.livejournal.com/profile)[**halotolerant**](http://halotolerant.livejournal.com/)

**Proslib: **Yes   
**Circuit Archive: **Yes   
**Pairing and/or characters: **Bodie/Doyle   
**Rating: **Everyone   
**Word Count: **~2,600   
**Notes:** Pic nine in the [first challenge ](http://community.livejournal.com/teaandswissroll/10928.html#cutid1)inspired this fic although the storyline wandered from my original idea rather a lot! It was more a mood. Many thanks to [](http://elfwhistletree.livejournal.com/profile)[**elfwhistletree**](http://elfwhistletree.livejournal.com/)for beta ♥   
   


During the drive up from London, the air in the car had become dry and overheated, and had started to stink of exhaust fumes from the queue in front of them.

For the first few seconds after he’d stepped out of the Capri, onto the rain-slick quayside, Bodie had felt the cold, fresh air wash over his skin with an intense sense of relief. And – for a few more seconds – the sights and sounds and the smell of kerosene and salt had been familiar enough to soothe him. He scanned the wide concrete quay and the boats drawn up on the shingle beyond and he might have been that child again, eager to rush to anything with moving water.

Nothing seemed to have changed, and, standing there again, Bodie felt momentarily as though he hadn’t either.

The sick feeling came after these things; swamping them in a tide of untouchable emotions he barely had words for.

Forcing himself to walk the full length of the quay, Bodie kept his eyes forward, staring ahead through the rain to the sea, and beyond that to things deeper still. He did not hear the footsteps behind him.

“Did anything happen?”

“What?” Bodie turned sharply.

Doyle gave him a confused frown. “Have you seen anything? Whilst I was getting these did anything happen? And you’re welcome, by the way.”

He thrust out a small white paper packet of chips, their grease in grey streaks down the sides and –judging by the smell - almost fizzing with vinegar.

“Oh, yeah. Ta,” Bodie took the warm parcel and felt the automatic salivation arrive almost painfully in his mouth – it had been a long time since breakfast. And yet an ache in his stomach, one which had set in as soon as he’d heard the order from Cowley to come to this place; low and dull and filling somehow, held him back. “And no, nothing’s happened.”

Doyle was still looking at him oddly. Bodie grabbed the fingertips of one of his gloves in his teeth to pull it off, and carefully selected a chip. He then turned away from Doyle again, leaning on the railing that edged the quay, looking out over the slate-grey sea, which was pockmarked with rain and churning up dirty foam where it crashed beneath his feet.

The sea certainly hadn’t changed.

\- - -

All those years ago – nearer to thirty now than twenty, and wasn’t that enough to sober you – the sea had looked like this, threatening almost, the bubbles in the wake of the cargo ship leaving a path behind him like the dotted line that traced a hero’s journey in a children’s book.

And the grim facade of the quayside buildings had gradually faded into mist, and then he’d waited to see Oslo, and had presumed that he’d know when it stopped being England under the water, because surely the weight would lift?

And then he’d been standing on a crowded dockyard, being shouted at in Norwegian, snow getting in his eyes and not feeling any different than he had the day before, wandering around this very quay – fourteen and freezing cold in knee-shorts and school duffel-coat - asking for a berth, any berth, any job; one hand in his pocket worrying at his bus ticket because he wasn’t ever, ever going home.

\- - -

“Are you alright?”

Doyle was still frowning, eyes searching his face.

“Of course I am,” Bodie rolled his eyes and stuffed another chip into his mouth, where it sat; a soggy, tasteless mess.

“You never said a word all the drive up here.” Doyle lifted himself up to perch on the railing, back to the water, ankles hooked behind the lower rail. “What’s eating you? Cos, frankly, this job stinks to me as well – I don’t think they’re smuggling the weapons out by sea at all. I mean why would you? Slower, more risky, not worth it in terms of the weight involved.”

He looked, Bodie thought, faintly ridiculous. The rain had caught them as soon as they’d left the Capri and whilst he himself was chilled and damp under the collar, Doyle’s hair had plastered itself about his face in thick strands, odd remnants of curls sticking out like flags.

After a prolonged period of silence, Doyle finally gave a sigh and turned his attention to delicately collecting his own chips with a two-pronged wooden fork. “Fine, don’t tell me. But can you please stew and keep a lookout at the same time? I think I’m going to have to concentrate not to have these blow away from under my gob.”

Bodie grasped the rail again – the black paint was flaking away and felt rough under his hands, and beneath that came the bone-striking cold of the metal, tethering him when the disassociation of intense feeling threatened to cut him loose altogether.

\- - -

The inside of the cargo ship had been dark, and had smelt like the alleyway behind the cinema where the older boys went to murmur and smoke and spit.

Bodie had been a big fourteen, not questioned when he’d made his way only weeks earlier – aching with curiosity – to a town some miles away from his small village, boasting a shop that sold _Playboy_. But he’d never fought – not more than playground scraps - until he got onto that ship.

They’d been alright, for the most part, the crew. No one bullied him. He’d learnt to fight because he liked to. It made his blood pound and wore him out; when he couldn’t breathe he could rarely think either. She’d never let him be angry or despairing long, over all the minor tragedies of childhood – broken toys, lost kites, denied sweet things – and when she lingered in his thoughts now, him being so drove her away.

\- - -

They’d been at the dock nearly four hours. Ambling down to the shore, Doyle had skimmed pebbles out over the waves and Bodie found himself bending to find better contenders.

“You’ve never got one as far the green buoy,” Doyle pointed out after a while.

“Neither’ve you.”

“Three ones ago I did – bounced right off.”

“You never.”

“I did. You weren’t looking.”

“Well, who knows what you do when I’m not looking? I’m certainly glad I don’t.”

Doyle raised an eyebrow, shook his head and then laughed – a short chuckle that meant he’d conceded the point. Bodie threw one more stone, celebrating his victory, before turning back towards the long grey slab of the quay.

She’d taught him to throw stones, right here. He’d worn red wellingtons he hadn’t wanted to get muddy, and she’d promised to wash them when they got home and he’d clung to her legs at first anyway and then suddenly run out to join his father, who was right at the sea edge watching a lifeboat come in. There had been people in the boat, and something covered in rugs, and suddenly he’d been swept up in the air and away, squawking with glee like a seagull – _don’t let him see it, Jim, it’s no sight for a child_ – and they’d faced the other way, casting stones into the sea.

Doyle came up level with him again, a question opening on his lips.

Bodie managed to speak first: “You want a coffee?”

Doyle rubbed his hands together and blew on them, puffs of white steam. “Twist my arm.”

“If you say so.”

The scuffle that ensued deposited them gracelessly on the mud. Doyle got up and uttered a cry of rage.

“Bodie! I love these jeans!”

“Shouldn’t have worn them out on a stake-out then.”

Doyle shot him a withering glare and began with numerous dramatic sighs to try and brush the rapidly caking mud from where it had soaked into the fabric. Bodie sat back on a reasonably clean patch of pebbles and felt the beginnings of returning anxiety. Fighting drove it away. Doyle drove it away. But it lingered, still, like a raincloud would no matter how good your umbrella.

“Look, Bodie, what’s eating you?” Doyle sat next to him, the pebbles clacking as they shifted.

“What? I can’t be pissed off?”

Doyle reached out and took his hand. Bodie felt heat rising to his cheeks despite the cold and the grim shivery feeling he associated with guilt; instinctively he tried to pull it away, but Doyle had already turned it over with firm, gentle pressure and was pointing to the small crescents red-branded into the skin from where Bodie hadn’t realised he’d been digging his nails into the palm of his hand.

Doyle’s eyes were wide, almost wistful: “Last of the great detectives, me.”

\- - -

There was one last, gentle press of the cloth against his hand.

“You need to stop the fighting of everyone,” Nils had said, soaking the rag in the bowl of warm water and Epsom salts. His berth was larger than Bodie’s and he had his own First Aid stuff; he’d taken Bodie back to clean him up a few times now since Bodie had transferred to his ship, giving him half a cigarette to smoke in the pallid greenish light to keep him from wincing too much at the iodine.

Nils was Swedish and looked it; tall and blonde. He’d married his childhood sweetheart, but lived most of the year on the cargo ships – there was a baby at home, but Bodie hadn’t quite gathered if it was Nils’. Nils had learnt quick enough not to ask Bodie questions and Bodie returned the favour.

Bodie had taken a long drag on the cigarette and stretched his bare legs out on Nils’ bed, trying not to gasp as his stomach muscles contracted. He’d seen the other side of sixteen now but he was still growing, broadening and getting stronger. He won more fights than he lost; he figured Nils was asking him from concern for his shipmates as much as anything else.

“Feels good,” he pointed out. “I’m good at fighting.”

“Other things can feel good.” Nils had put down the rag, but still had his back to Bodie. “Things that do not hurt you.”

Bodie had almost hoped this was where all this was heading; he pulled Nils’ hand between his legs and his mouth to his own eagerly. Nils was wrong though, of course, in the end; Bodie came to the conclusion that everything pleasurable hurt somebody, somehow, sooner or later.

\- - -

It had started raining once more. The day went in circles like that. Boats arrived, were unloaded and the crew departed and then a new boat and the same process, the same tracks from the cranes, the same checks, the same paperwork.

Private motor-launches, on a day like that, were scarce, but when they came it was also to a rhythm and a procedure, and all were in order and above-board. The inevitable had a strange sort of horror to it – but then Bodie had discovered that long ago. She’d put the piece of paper down on the kitchen table – she’d written the words carefully across it; she always noted everything – and his father had turned white and started crying and Bodie had absolutely loathed him, had wanted to hit him just to make him stop, because the world would stop collapsing if all those feelings would only go away.

“You’re going to have to be strong,” his father had said to him. “Fourteen, now. You’re going to have be a man.”

Bodie had run out of the room, away from both their eyes and the hungry desperation in their faces.

\- - -

Doyle led the way to the cafe just after three, after they’d made the full perambulation of the hard several times, reading every sign in the harbour master’s window and watching a man in a black woolly hat solemnly fail to catch fish off the side.

Across the orange tartan tablecloth with its wipe-clean plastic surface, Doyle held his fourth or fifth cup of tea in both hands, gazing over the top of it narrow-eyed at Bodie.

Bodie pushed away his plate, wiped clean of sausage and chips and with only a little ketchup remaining.

“I told you; it’s not important.”

That only earned him a raised eyebrow. “If it wasn’t important, you’d tell me.”

Bodie bit his lip to quell an urge to just... He wanted to hit him. When it came down to it, that was still the simplest way.

Doyle looked at him for a few more moments, then leant back, tipping his chair legs and pushing his mug away.

“Do you know what? I don’t have to care about this.”

“Well, good.”

Bodie picked up two lumps of sugar and stirred them into his tea. Doyle didn’t move, certainly didn’t leave, and gradually Bodie’s heart rate slowed and when he looked up again Doyle was watching him, stupid hair and all.

Bodie licked his lips before he spoke. “I don’t... I don’t know... how to do this.”

“Yeah, because I’m a bloody expert.” Doyle sighed and mashed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “And then there’s the flipping targets to watch out for.”

Bodie felt, not for the first time, a small voice of logic telling him he’d be a lot better off working with someone he didn’t like this much.

He imagined throwing his cup at the wall; the smash of china and the great stain spreading out like a scream.

Doyle kept watching him, like he saw it too. “Why don’t we go outside?” he said softly, standing.

“Tell me something then,” Bodie demanded, rounding on him as they stepped back into the cold, a childish, stupid urge to prevaricate. “Tell me a secret if I’m telling you mine.”

Ray looked at him for a moment, then reached out and took his hand – Bodie felt as though his skin was burning – and lifted it and brought it to his lips, just brushing the knuckles.

Bodie’s tongue wouldn’t move, at first. “I knew that.”

“That’s why you have to tell me.”

It was very hard to breathe. Thickness in his throat and thin air to his lungs; Bodie felt dizzy, disorientated, lost – this was absolutely fucking dangerous. Biting his lip, he felt where Ray’s hand still touched his as if it were the only real thing left.

This was what had changed, finally.

His mouth was dry. The pulse in his neck was so strong it ached. The words came simply, and didn’t take long enough.

“My mother had cancer,” he began, as easily as if he’d ever said it aloud before. “I was fourteen. And she was going to die, horribly. And I couldn’t... And I ran away from home, and I never saw her again.”

The silence held on a while. Ray didn’t move.

And then Ray was walking, striding away to the railings, and Bodie went after him, blood rising, ready to punch him with disappointment and say _you weren’t there, you don’t understand what it was like_ and million other stupid, pitiful things; grabbed his shoulder, turned him and Ray’s hands went up, but only a little, and Bodie saw that he was crying.

“Fuck.” Ray’s voice broke half-way. “Fuck, Bodie. Oh Christ,” and he wiped at his eyes violently.

“It was awful,” Bodie began to say, and then he sat down, abruptly, because...

Ray dropped too, and held him, right on through and until the shaking stopped. And Bodie held the words back, and didn’t say _and sometimes I think I’d do nothing differently, if this is how I end up finding you_, because there had to be a limit to how much Ray could forgive him for.

 


End file.
